He is a local author, as well as a college professor in such classes involving theories, and proving things wrong that are thought to be right, or things thought to be impossible, irrevocably and obviously wrong right. A new-age philosopher perhaps, with black hair and red eyes and a lithe, borderline scrawny body that was yet elegant in all of the moves it made. Black and grey wings, perfectly preened and arranged, protruded from his shoulderblades and always remained neatly and primly folded against his back.
He is popular, widely read, and controversial at the same time because some people don't think that he should incorporate the themes, elements, language, extensive knowledge, hidden aspects, so on and so forth – all those damn literary terms that he doesn't like to think about because it sounds like bullshit because hell, sometimes authors or poets just mean that someone sees a cloud, or walks past a tree and they don't have to analyze it down to fuck or something like that, really – since his public didn't necessarily always involve those who were brilliant. Some were young, picking out novels for their titles, cover art, etcetera, and yes, some were the bright stars who knew fucking everything – that infuriated him too, because they would occasionally send in mail attempting to refute his writings. Hah! Him, wrong? Bullshit! – but others were oh so much more interesting.
Like this one for instance; he raised a thin black eyebrow in curiosity when his vision flitted from the pages in front of him to see a blonde take a seat in the unoccupied armchair directly in front of him. He is tall, judging from bent knees, and his eyes are a honey-mocha color but are hidden behind glasses that were fading into clear plastic – transitions no doubt? – lenses secured by a thick white frame. There were smudges of color on the frames, quite possibly paint, but the male didn't look like he would ever be a painter of any sort because he looked so rough and tumble. Broad shoulders, hands that didn't look delicate in the slightest, and his wings had their feathers messed in some places, with scratches and even a scar or two it looked like.
That might have been unavoidable though, noted the author with the barest of frowns behind the book hiding his lower face, because those scars were enough to have revealed the skin of his wings, and one even took a chunk out of the lower part of the left one. Judging from the gap of golden-yellow feathers at least.
How baffling though, and even his heart gave a twinge; scars or markings on wings were such things that were considered terrible, horrible, awful. Wings were a revered thing and were only touched by lovers, supposed to be kept from harm, and were more sensitive appendages than others. To have a whole piece gone, bone included, was only heard of in cases involving the police or something of that nature.
Interesting though, that such a person would pick his book up for a read. And actually seem to be reading it, according to the way his irises were moving slow enough to be absorbing the words but not too fast as to skim the text. An irritating buzz came from the blonde's pocket, and he sighed heavily while standing up. The book snapped shut in the process; it was for sure going to go back on the shelf and most definitely not.. with the man and on its way to the counter?
Izaya's spine tingled when that set of eyes shaded in a brown that he hadn't ever particularly seen before met with his, and he faintly caught a hitching of breath along with a poorly concealed shudder from the blonde.
Silence was terse between them for a second at most before the connection was broken, leaving both to rub at the right sides of their chest subconsciously.
